


Hang Up and You Call Right Back

by cupstealer, SimoneClouseau



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, College, Counterfactual, F/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupstealer/pseuds/cupstealer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimoneClouseau/pseuds/SimoneClouseau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Toews. Diana is grinding with Jonathan Toews. Aw, really? That guy? She hates that guy. Pat watches, disgusted as he bends his head to Diana’s neck, lips skimming the skin there.</i>
</p><p>Patricia Kane unwittingly follows Jonathan Toews to UND.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang Up and You Call Right Back

**Author's Note:**

> Set in 2006. In order to make this work, we moved up Kaner’s birthdate. Some of the students mentioned actually did attend UND with Jonny, but most of them are made up. The date-ditching Kyle Engblom is a figment of our imagination. 
> 
> Explicit rating is for later chapters.

Pat’s spent a lot of time around boys in her life, between her little brothers, and the rink, and pickup games of shinny. She’s not, you know a man hater or anything, despite what the boys back at Shattuck would say, holding up crossed fingers like she was coming to kill them. Sometimes they used to joke about her being a lesbian because of playing on the hockey team and the way she dressed and wore her hair. But that’s not true, although sometimes she thinks it might’ve been easier. She’s still mourning the way everything ended with Kyle Engblom. If you can say ‘ended’ on something that never really began. But the thing about teenage boys in college? They’re definitely made immeasurably worse by alcohol. Pat likes parties and she loves to dance. What she does not love is being ground up on by drunken frat boys who spill beer on her shoes. She’s about ready to ask for a female-only dancefloor, screw whether or not they call her a dyke.

She’s really done with this party tonight. The jungle-juice is terrible. The music’s not that great, the playlist’s all over the place. It must be all over her face, because her teammate Lyssa laughs in the middle of hopping up and down to a Panic! At The Disco song and leans in close to be heard over the music.

“You ready to peace? We can get cheese-fries and then go back to Brannon and watch some reality TV,” Lyssa asks.

Pat nods gratefully. “Please, god, anywhere but here.”

Lyssa shakes her head. “Drama queen,” she says, but it’s without bite. “I’ll get Amy and Claire. You want to find your roommate? What’s her name? Diana?”

It’s only a few weeks into the school year and Pat’s been sticking pretty close to her teammates, but Diana’s cool. She’s beautiful. Tall, willowy, sleek dark hair, seemingly amazing at everything she does—Pat’s polar opposite. She’d hate her, if she weren’t so fucking nice. 

“Yeah, I’ll find her,” Patricia nods. “Meet you outside,” she says, before diving off onto a different portion the dancefloor. 

Diana’s a head-and-shoulders taller than everybody else, so she’s easy to spot. She’s dancing with some guy, leaning back against him, his hands on her hips, but when she sees Pat she waves. 

Pat holds up her hand in a thumbs up, thumbs down gesture to ask whether she needs a rescue and Diana smiles and shoots her a surreptitious thumbs up. And that’s when Pat recognizes the stupid backwards baseball cap and hoodie. 

Toews. Diana is grinding with Jonathan Toews. Aw, really? That guy? She hates that guy. Pat watches, disgusted as he bends his head to Diana’s neck, lips skimming the skin there. Ugh, what a stupid player move. She can’t believe it when Diana goes in for it, letting her head drop back against his shoulder. Jesus christ. She knew that Toews was popular with girls back in school, it was kind of hard to escape, especially in the lead up to homecoming and prom. The year he graduated Pat could name at least five people in the eleventh grade who had a crush on him or his stupid buddies. It’s weird to see it in action, especially because she simply doesn’t get it. She’d sock him before she let him put his mouth on any part of her. 

She sighs. It seems unlikely that Diana’s interested in some cheese fries and reality TV right now. Pat shakes her head and gives a little wave, threading her way back towards the door through the fog of Axe and Rolling Rock.

*

They’ve only been at Deek’s for twenty minutes when Pat gets a text from Diana asking where they are. Diana doesn’t take long to get there, either, loping over to their table with unbelievable grace in heels that should have her feet turning purple by now. Diana is unreal. The flush she’s sporting could be from the shots they did before leaving their dorm, but the self-satisfied, eager set of her lips when she pulls up a chair sets the record straight. 

“Well, well, well,” Pat drawls. “Look who tore herself away.”

She grins and shifts in her chair, nearly bouncing. “Fuck off,” she replies good naturedly before showing Pat her phone with a jazz hand. “I got his number,” she chirps. “He’s on the hockey team, right? You’ll have to tell me what he’s like.”

Cass, sitting on Diana’s other side, snoops over her shoulder to peek at the phone. Cass is a sophomore, much more familiar with the men’s team than Pat. In theory, anyway.

Her face lights up in recognition. “Oh, Toews? Nice!” And then it’s, “She hooked up with Jonathan Toews?” and, “Oh my god, well fucking done,” all ramping up to some Ode to Toews, and Pat just has to toss her head back and groan. 

“Ugggh, he’s such a tool, are you kidding?” She turns to Diana. “You could’ve had any of those guys,” Pat says, gesturing with a cheese fry, “Anybody! Why him?”

Amy snorts, “Um. Have you seen him?”

Pat rolls her eyes and Lyssa says, “Wait, wait, what happened with you and Toews, Pat? You think he’s a tool?”

“Yeah, because he is one,” Pat relies, “I don’t get it. I seriously _do not_ get why anybody thinks that guy is cool.”

Lyssa raises her eyebrows at her and waits. 

Pat eyeballs the ceiling and huffs out a breath through her nose. 

“So we went to the same high school,” she starts, snapping her hair tie against her wrist as she launches into extremely serious list of reasons why Jonathan Toews is not a sophomore hockey god, but an immature ass, and Pat spent three years with him during his formative years, so she thinks she would know. 

She knows her friends aren’t exactly convinced that Toews is a jackass by the end of it. Cass has like five ‘cute’ anecdotes from last year when she and Toews were both freshman, how he always helped her with her French homework (“He speaks French? That’s so hot!”), and was really good with little kids (“maybe he’s changed since you knew him, Pat.”) When the girls ask her to dish, Diana pinks up a little bit, but leans forward conspiratorially and admits he’s an incredible kisser. 

“I am so unhappy with my life,” Pat replies, thunking her head back against the booth as her friends giggle. 

“Cheer up, Pat,” Lyssa says, slinging an arm around her neck. “Everybody needs a Regina George. Yours is just 6’2 and looks horrible in a dress.” 

Pat groans and bats at her. 

“So are you going to see him again?” Amy asks Diana. 

Diana shrugs, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “I gave him my number.” 

If Toews starts dating her roommate and is around all the time she’s going to throw herself off of Chester Fritz. 

Only days pass, and Toews never texts or calls. Diana says she’s not disappointed, but Pat can tell that’s not true. When she sees him at REA, laughing and joking with the other guys on the team as they leave the locker room after their practice, she has the obscure urge to ask, ‘what about Diana?” She would if it wouldn’t make her look like a total psycho. 

And then one of her teammates, Tina says shyly, “Hey, Jonny,” as she passes him. 

“Oh hey,” Toews replies, looking over at her a little blankly. God, Pat bets he doesn’t even know Tina’s name. In the locker room, while she’s strapping her skates on, she listens to the other girls rib Tina for her crush on Toews, and wants to throw up her hands in frustration. How does nobody see through his bullshit?

“No, no,” Tina says, waving them off, cheeks flaming red. “He doesn’t date girls on the team.” 

Yeah, so he’s definitely a tool. 

*

Pat got lucky, she thinks, watching Claire roam around the dining hall in a hot dog costume to find her date to the fall formal. All’s fair in Screw and war. 

But Pat, lucky Pat, has been blessed by her team with a relatively painless assignment. She’s had a hard couple of weeks, with hockey practice and classes in full swing. Screw Your Teammate had seemed like just another energy drain leading up to the season starting in a few weeks. One more thing to worry about. But the girls have taken it easy on her.

All she’s got to do is wear this tie—her date’s, presumably—around campus all afternoon, which is a little embarrassing, sure, unless you hold it up next to an Oscar Meyer Weiner suit. And she doesn’t have any instructions about singing or dancing in public, no soliloquies or costumes. All she knows is she’s supposed to look for ‘someone who looks like her’ and give them a corsage. If it turns out they set her up with a girl for SYT, she will laugh _so hard._

She’s got the corsage when she leaves her dorm with Lyssa and Claire, all dressed for the formal, to head to a pregame in Cass’ suite. They’re crossing the quad in front of the math building, heels slightly sinking into the grass, when Lyssa claps a hand over her mouth and makes a bizarre sound. When Pat turns for an explanation, Claire’s biting down hard on a grin before covering her mouth too, looking off to Pat’s right, and then back at Pat. Pat follows her gaze.

Oh. Someone across the quad is wearing a hockey helmet. Someone walking toward them. Someone in a button down and pants. No tie. Her fingers go to the one around her neck unconsciously. ‘Someone who looks like her.’ It’s probably her helmet, she realizes. Her helmet is mostly visor, only cage at the bottom, but she can’t make out his face in the dim light from the setting sun and the weak glow of lamp posts. 

Behind her, Lyssa is cracking up. She already had to lasso her date in the library; she’s probably just desperate to laugh at anyone else’s predicament. Because from where Pat’s standing, this is pretty tame. He’s holding something in his hand, and when she hears the faint strains of music she realizes it’s a little set of portable speakers. It sounds like ‘U Got It Bad,’ which is suitably ridiculous, but she still feels far from the realm of lassos and cow suits. 

When he’s close enough that she can make out the 88 on her helmet, she fishes the corsage out from her bag and holds it out. 

He pulls the helmet off fluidly and when Pat meets his eyes, she flinches hard, pulling the corsage to her chest, away from him, as she gapes.

Pat hates her teammates. Oh god, she _hates_ them. 

It’s Toews, of course, running a hand through his helmet hair, giving her a friendly grin. “Hey.”

She spins right around to yell at Lyssa. 

“Oh, you assholes!” she cries. “Are you serious? I’m gonna get you for this. You wait and see.”

She and Claire are both doubled over laughing at her weak threats, unable to answer. After a few moments, she hears a cough from behind her then and turns back to face Toews. His smile is a little uncertain now, and Pat’s sure that whatever her face is doing, it isn’t reassuring. The thing is, they fucking suck, but she can admire the prank. Usher and the corsage were just icing on the cake. 

She takes a deep breath, thinking of bag skates. It’s just a few hours of her life. She can do this. 

She tosses him the corsage and starts to take the tie off. She hasn’t said a word to him. When she glances up, Toews is staring off to the side, looking nonplussed. Probably never had this reaction, she thinks with a little vicious glee. 

“You look nice,” he tries. She barely keeps from rolling her eyes. He would. 

“Thanks,” she drawls flatly and starts to walk past him so they can get this show on the road. 

*

She might be overdoing it a little on the alcohol, but she’s gotta survive this night somehow, and they got awkwardly forced to play Edward Fortyhands, so now she’s got herself attached to Toews at the wrist, along with two handles of vodka. She’ll take the vodka. It’s Toews who can take a hike—although right now, that might prove a little difficult with their arms taped together. He hasn’t said much, told a couple of jokes that fell flat, spoke with a few friends like she wasn’t even there, which, she supposes she earned with the way she’s mostly ignored him. A couple of guys on the team have ribbed him about the corsage strapped to his left wrist, but Toews’ flipped them off and didn’t make a deal out of it. It’s one of the most awkward things that’s ever happened to her though. She has nothing to say to him and he keeps shooting her looks like she’s about to bite him. This isn’t even the first formal this guy has ruined for her. Definitely an overachiever.

She supposes it could be worse. Lyssa got screwed with Grieco and like all goalies, he’s totally weird, acting twitchy and embarrassing out on the dancefloor. Her sympathy for Lyssa right now though is fairly limited. She’s still plotting epic payback. Kool-aid in her shower head is sounding really good right now. 

Pat didn’t drink much in high school, and she’s still getting used to the taste of it. She’s been told the cheap stuff is worse, but frankly, it’s not like she would know the difference, every mouthful burns and makes her wince. 

“Maybe you should slow down,” Toews says, eyeing how much is left in the handle taped to her hand. 

She shoots him a look and very deliberately takes another swig. His eyes widen when she follows it up with another mouthful. It takes everything she has not to choke on it and her eyes water dangerously. God this shit really does taste terrible. 

“Jesus H, what are you, 110? Do you want to end up in the hospital?” he asks with an incredulous laugh. 

She shakes her head. Shows what he knows about women’s body weight. “Lay off. I weigh 125.” 

“Bullshit,” he replies with a snort. 

“Truth!” she insists. It is, of course, bullshit, at her last weigh in she had just hit 119, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

She goes for a third swallow, when she finds herself getting tugged clumsily towards him, pressed up against his chest so that she can’t reach her mouth with the bottle. Her face is practically mashed into the fabric of his suit, where she can’t help noticing the fresh, inviting scent of detergent and cologne clinging to his lapel—he’s that much taller than her. 

“What the—” she cries and tries to kick one of his shins, but he evades her easily with his longer legs. She struggles against him, aggravated by how strong he is, and how easily he’s keeping her in place, just by locking his elbow around her waist. “You don’t get to decide this for me.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather you not die while you’re attached to my arm, thanks,” he replies, barely giving her enough room to breathe. She briefly considers kneeing him in the balls. The way he’s situated now, it wouldn’t be hard at all to bring her thigh up right between his legs. That’d certainly put a new spin on man-handling. But she realizes that Toews has completely forgotten about the hand that’s currently taped to hers, and before she can stop herself, she’s dragging her arm up and tilting the bottle so that all of the shitty vodka comes pouring out in a rush all over his head. He barely gets his eyes shut in time, yanking their joined arms down with a jerk so that she can’t pour anymore on him. 

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting, him to start shouting and sputtering about how she’s a crazy bitch just like everybody in high school always said. Instead, he stands there in stiff silence for a moment, arm gone tense around her, before opening his eyes slowly. He sucks on his teeth, face inscrutable as he looks right through her, before he bends his head to wipe his face off on his shoulder. She’s not sure why, but suddenly she starts to feel a little bad, even though he’s still got his arm around her waist and totally deserved it. 

She lets out a squeak when he suddenly tugs her towards the door, practically yanking her off her feet and up into his arms like she weighs nothing at all. She gets a good look outside and knows in an instant where he’s going. She hopes her teammates are seeing her struggle and feeling really sorry right now, because they should. This is all their fault. 

“No! Toews! No,” she cries trying to thrash in his arms as he carries her over to Adelphi fountain. She’s considering if maybe an apology would get him to put her down, but she waits too long, and he dumps her right in the water. 

“Fuck,” she cries with a gasp as she surfaces. The water is a cold shock and she can barely get her balance in her heels, she hates the way she’s using Toews’ stupid arm to steady herself, and she hates the way he’s just sitting on the lip of the fountain, all serene, taped arm outstretched like he’s offering help and not like he just threw his date into a campus water feature. “You asshole!” 

He smirks. “Just giving you a measured and proportional response.” He stands back up again now that she’s not sitting on her ass in the water and dragging him down, levels her a look like he thinks he’s absolutely won.

“Fuck you, ‘proportional response’!” she growls and then tugs with all her might, yanking him into the fountain right along with her. She’s not really betting on all of his body weight coming crashing down on her while she’s still up to her knees in water though and they both go under in a great splash. 

When Toews comes back up again, he’s coughing and wheezing. Pat tries to shoulder some of the water out of her eyes, before swearing at him again. 

“You really shoulda seen that one coming,” she says darkly, using him to haul herself up. 

He looks over at her, mouth open like he’s astonished, and then, he starts laughing, big belly laughs that make his eyes crinkle up in the corners. After a moment she starts laughing with him. God, this is so ridiculous. This what she gets for trying to dress up all fancy—dunked in Adelphi. 

“Shit,” he says, laughter dying down into chuckles. He steps carefully over the edge of the fountain and then helps her awkwardly clamber over. The fabric of her dress clings to her body with a wet sucking noise and she sighs. Her mom is going to be so mad when she finds out. Pat’s mostly sad about the shoes which she loves and hopes can survive being submerged in chlorinated water. 

“Okay, Kane,” Toews says with a sigh, steadying her as she nearly loses her footing on the wet pavement. “What’s your deal?” 

She blinks up at him, trying to blow the strands of wet hair out of her face, and wishing desperately that she had full use of her hands. “You don’t remember?” 

He shrugs and shakes his head, expression puzzled and she frowns. "Back in high school you came and 'rescued' your friend from a dance with me. How was that supposed to make me feel?"

It had taken so much courage to even ask Kyle to dance as soon as the slow song came on, and she’d thought maybe it would finally be the night she could get rid of her troublesome virginity. Most of her friends already had boyfriends. She’d felt like the only girl in boarding school still hanging on to it. But then Toews had come busting in, demanding Kyle’s attention right then with some stupid story about something interesting outside of the gym by North Cottage, which was obviously bullshit. 

"What? No,” Toews protests. “Half the team had gotten ski masks on and had gone streaking naked across campus. Mr. Scherer was chasing after them in a golf cart. It was hilarious. You have to have heard about that!” 

She makes a scoffing noise and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, okay.” 

Toews turns his head and slants her with a look that's almost palpable. Suddenly she’s aware of the way the her satiny formal dress is plastered to her body, nipples showing through the fabric from the cold. He can see everything, she might as well be naked. She hunches in a little bit, a blush coming to her cheeks, and after a moment, his eyes drawn back up to her her face, he smiles.

"For the record, nobody needs rescuing from you."

“Whatever,” she mumbles, embarrassed, not meeting his eyes. She goes to take a sip from her forty and realizes whatever’s left is probably all mixed with fountain water now and she poured the other one out all over Toews. 

Toews seems to understand her dilemma because he holds out his other hand and the half-full bottle therein. “I kept my arm up above the water,” he says with a grin. 

“Victory!” she says with a little shoulder shimmy and then lets him carefully pour some into her mouth. 

He pulls the bottle back, face stern, an expression he does all too well. 

“That’s all you’re getting though. Don’t think I forgot how all of this started.” 

“Uh, you trying to keep me from the alcohol?” 

He ignores her, taking a swig himself. He doesn’t wince when he swallows, so she thinks it’s fair to assume he’s had a lot more practice than her. 

After a beat, she says, “What now?” 

They look down in unison to where their hands are joined. “Scissors,” Toews says decisively, then repeats pensively. 

“My dorm’s pretty close?” Pat offers. 

“Lead on.”

Pat tries to fight a shiver as she picks her way across campus squelch by squelch. Toews looks a little apologetic. “I’d offer you my jacket, but…”

“But it’s also wet,” she finishes for him saltily, tucking her free arm close for warmth.

He huffs out a laugh. “And whose fault is _that?_ ”

Pat just jabs her elbow into his and focuses on not falling to her death. “Vodka me.”

Toews obediently lifts the plastic bottle and slowly tilts it to her lips. The taste isn’t as sharp as it was at the beginning of the night, but it still makes her resist the urge to cringe. Her fingers flex uselessly under the tape. A thought pings in her (slightly fuzzy) brain. “Uh…”

“What?”

“So. When we get to these scissors…”

“Yeah?”

“How are we going to uh. Use them?”

Toews’ pace slows. He hadn’t considered this either.

“Unless you’re better with your mouth than I expect,” she adds, just to be a dick. When she glances over at him, he’s smirking like he knows something she doesn’t.

“Never had any complaints.” 

He raises his free arm like he wants to wipe his hand across his face, stops short when he remembers the bottle and takes a swig. “With the scissors, I… we’ll figure something out. We can always go back to the party.”

Pat glances down to her still perfectly visible breasts and hopes they don’t have to resort to that. They’re just approaching the entrance to Pat’s dorm when a voice calls out, “Yo, Jonnyyy!”

It’s one of the freshman on the men’s team, Josh Something, sloppily trotting down the stairs. 

“Hey, man,” Toews says with not a little relief in his voice. “Think you could do me a solid real quick and help us out of these?” He lifts a hand/handle and waves it a little. 

Josh Something says about seven different variations of ‘yes,’ ‘definitely,’ and ‘for sure’ in rapid succession, apparently eager to please. Pat ‘definitely’ hopes he ‘for sure’ has a pair of scissors in his own dorm, because it dawns on her that running into Diana while sopping wet and duct taped to Jonathan Toews might not be the best end to Pat’s night. 

Josh comes through for them, cutting through the tape on Toews’ hand amidst animated chatter. Pat realizes, as he chats Toews up about some mutual friend who played with Toews at World Juniors selection camp, that this guy is a little starstruck. By Toews.

She watched the Draft. She watches the Draft every year, the way a diabetic watches their friends trick-or-treat. She knows this is the third overall pick beside her trying to discreetly unstick the damp placket of his pants from his crotch with a newly freed hand. She just can’t picture being in awe of him.

When both his hands are free, Toews slowly peels back the tape from Pat’s hand between them. He deftly swipes the scissors from Josh, tells him to go ahead on his way to whichever frat he was heading to before their paths crossed. Josh Whoever agrees easily, stealing a swig from the near empty liquor bottle. Pat holds up her still-taped hand to knock bottles with him in gratitude, thanks him on his way out.

Toews cups her hand and ducks in close to focus on cutting her free. He’s just been cut loose from her, but he’s standing about as close to her as he has all night. Under the chlorine and vodka, he still has that clean, magnetic scent. The skin around his knuckles is pink from the tape being removed, she notes idly, watching the movement of his hands manipulating hers with gentle touches. His fingers are long with his nails trimmed as short as possible. Pat’s all at once aware of how sleepy she is.

She’s startled when a drop of water drips from Toews’ hair onto the bridge of her nose. He doesn’t look up from his work when she twitches in surprise, just holds her hand still. “Easy, there. Can’t have me stabbing the MVP’s mitts.”

When she glances up, he’s still focusing on the task at hand with his lip just barely quirked, steady. Demuring isn’t her style, even though calling her MVP when her first season hasn’t started yet is a bit much. So she doesn’t reply, just files the comment away into the growing box of puzzle pieces this night has left her with. Toews sets the scissors down and starts peeling the tape back. It stings a little—his motions are matter-of-fact and Pat has to bite back a sound when he gets the last wide stripe of tape up from the back of her right hand. 

It’s a relief to be able to fully stretch her wrist, adjust her dress. She’s soggy, freezing, and a little drunker than she’d anticipated. 

“So, I should probably head up, get some dry clothes,” she says, at length.

She notices now that Toews has dropped himself into Josh’s desk chair, unconcerned about the lingering fountain water he’s dripping. At her words, he hastily hefts himself right back up. 

“That’s, uh, probably for the best.”

She nods, unsure why her cheeks have suddenly gone hot or why she feels so awkward. There’s just some part of this interaction she doesn’t have a handle on. She’s not sure how she’s supposed to act now. He was nice to her, aside from throwing her into cold water on an autumn night. How the hell is she supposed to say ‘so you should go…’ 

He seems to sense her discomfort though, because he clears his throat and points his thumb at the door. “Well, I’ll be off then.” 

“Yeah,” she nods quickly and follows him out into the hall. 

“Have a nice night,” he tells her as she turns toward the stairs. She looks back at him, wet and disheveled, clothes clinging to his body and white shirt gone translucent where she can see it through his jacket. He’s kind of a disaster, but there’s still something weirdly gallant about him, standing in her hall, raking his hand through his wet hair and wishing her a good night. 

“Check you on the flipside, Toews,” she says, pointing finger guns at him. 

He stares at her, fighting back an incredulous laugh, before he shakes his head. “Yeah, check you on the flipside.” 

He pushes out the door and into the night before she can say anything else. As soon as he’s out of sight, she looks both ways and then races up the stairs, pinning her breasts tight to her body with an arm across her chest. It’s not the most classy look, but at least they won’t bounce in her mad dash back to her room. The door is thankfully propped open with a hanger and she steps inside to find Diana is watching Prison Break on their little TV with a cute guy from down the hall. Diana looks up at the sound of Pat’s entrance. 

“Whoa, what happened to you?” Diana asks, taking her in with wide eyes. 

Pat snorts. She’s freezing, her hair’s a mess, she might’ve ruined her dress, and possibly her shoes, but really, she supposes the night wasn’t so terrible.

**Author's Note:**

> Find [both](http://cupstealer.tumblr.com) of [us](http://simoneclouseau.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
